


The World's an Orphan's Home

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-11
Updated: 2001-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oatmeal, quarters, kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's an Orphan's Home

"The angels spoke to me last night," Blair said. 

Jim looked over his newspaper at where Blair stood stirring their oatmeal. He'd put raisins in it; Jim could hear them plumping, their skins swelling with steam. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously. 

"I don't really believe in angels. Not literal angels. But in my dream, they were angels." He tapped the spoon against the side of the pot, moved it to a cold burner, and put the lid on. "Five minutes." 

"So, uh, what happened in your dream? What'd they say to you?" Jim folded the newspaper to watch his roommate, who stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, hair shooting out wildly. He didn't look entirely awake. 

"Actually, only one spoke to me. The others just sort of hung around in the background. There were four or five of them, I think." He frowned, struggling to remember. "They were all tall, and kind of grayish-white. I don't know how I knew they were angels; they didn't look like pictures of angels, Renaissance angels. 

"Anyway, the one said -- well, I can't remember what he said. But the feeling I'm left with is that I need to be careful. That I've left the path I need to take." 

Jim looked at the table with sudden interest. 

"No, man. I don't think it's that," Blair reassured him, but Jim was unconvinced. 

"I think it is, Chief," he said heavily, with finality, at last meeting Blair's worried eyes. "I -- Simon and I just wanted to make things better for you. And you're great at this, the best. The best partner I ever had." 

Blair stared at him, looking more awake and a little distressed. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Jim had to smile. 

"Not often a Sandburg is reduced to silence." 

"You asshole," Blair said fondly, and Jim smelled tears in the air. 

"Oatmeal's ready." 

Blair busied himself pouring it into two bowls while Jim got brown sugar and milk and refreshed their coffee. "Try to eat your oatmeal with sugar, rather than your sugar with oatmeal," Blair encouraged him as they sat down, and in the strange morning, Jim found he didn't have a response. 

When the scent of saline had receded and Jim had rallied somewhat, he said, "So what do you think the angel was talking about?" 

"I don't really think it was an angel, you know," Blair started, but Jim just gave him a look and he smoothly started again. "I'm not sure. I didn't get the feeling that I shouldn't be a cop. I mean, yeah, it isn't anything I dreamt of as a kid, the way I dreamt of being an anthropologist. But like I told you, Jim. Academia is like a merry-go-round. Working with you is like being on a roller coaster. The thought of giving that up --" 

"There are other ways for you to work with me." Blair sharpened his gaze. "To be with me," Jim added softly, and swallowed. He saw Blair think about that, withdrawing into himself as he ate his oatmeal. Spoonful by spoonful, Jim felt him pulling away. Well, I tried, he told himself, aiming at stoic but achieving only pathetic. 

When breakfast was over and the dishes were washed, Blair again leaned against the counter, resting on his hands behind his back, and looked up at Jim neatly folding the drying towel. "What do you mean?" he asked, and despite the twenty minutes that separated Jim's statement from Blair's question, he knew exactly what Blair meant. 

He stood in the kitchen and listened to Blair breathe. To the rain, heavier now than when he'd woken, thrumming on the patio and against the clerestory windows. He wasn't sure he should say what he wanted to say, wasn't even sure what it was he wanted to say. For long minutes the two men stood silently, and then Blair pushed away from the counter. Jim stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. Blair's flannel shirt was soft and warm beneath his hand, and he stroked it lightly, then cupped Blair's shoulder. He remembered with a sudden vividness the two of them in this same kitchen years ago, after Incacha had died. How he'd shouted in near hysteria at Blair, and how calmly, how firmly Blair had responded. 

"You've never been frightened of me," he said, in some wonder and a little amusement. 

"I've been plenty frightened," Blair said tartly and started to move away. Jim kept his hand on his shoulder, though, and he stopped. 

"But never of me." 

Blair smiled ruefully. "No. Never of you. For you, with you, but not of you." He tilted his head and soft curls spilled over Jim's hand. Without conscious volition, Jim captured a few strands and gently tugged. "Why?" 

Jim stepped nearer. He was going to say this, say *something*. He was way overdue. More than overdue. His account was overdrawn and about to be closed. "Just." He swallowed, dropped his eyes, and then looked into Blair's so near. He rested his other hand on Blair's shoulder, lightly holding him. "Stay," he finally ground out, and even to his own ears he didn't sound particularly inviting. "Stay with me," he amended, and cleared his throat. 

Blair smiled up at him, sweetly, sadly. "Why?" he whispered. 

That's a good question, Jim thought, and smiled sadly back. After another long pause while he considered his answers, he finally said, "Because I want you to. And I think you want to. And I'm tired of doing what I think other people think I should." He raised his eyebrows. "Guess I learned that from you and Naomi." 

Blair laughed wetly, and sniffed, and reached up a hand between Jim's arms to rub his nose. He sniffed again. "In what capacity should I remain?" 

Again the silence stretched out between them while Jim considered the question. "I'm not sure I understand the question," he tried, but now Blair shot him a look, and he bobbed his head. "With me," he said again, a little more insistently, getting a little annoyed with the time this was taking. "Just stay," he said and tried to drop his hands, but Blair caught them. 

"It's just us," Blair whispered. "Nobody else is here. Nobody else can hear what you say. But I need to know." 

Blair's hands were warm and a little moist from having washed dishes. Jim thought longingly of zoning on the sensation, but refrained from that pleasure. He tried another diversion. "In what capacity would you consider staying?" 

Blair smiled. "You've been hanging with the DA's office too long; you sound like a lawyer." 

Jim tugged at Blair's hands, smiling despite himself. "Answer the question." 

"I asked you first." 

"Oh, now that's real grown up. Maybe we should toss a coin." 

To Jim's surprise, Blair nodded and released him, turning to look for a coin. He opened the junk drawer and pawed through it. Jim sighed and pulled a quarter from his jeans. "Heads or tails?" 

Blair turned back to him; he sounded breathless to Jim as he said, "Heads." Jim tossed the coin, caught it, and flipped it over onto his forearm. For a few seconds they both stared at his hand covering the coin. 

"If it's heads, you start." 

"Hey, I called heads; if it's heads, *you* start." 

Jim shrugged and removed his hand, revealing the coin. "Shit." 

"No, no," Blair grabbed at him before he could turn away. "You started this. You finish it." Jim leaned over Blair to lay the coin on the counter and felt Blair's arms slip around his waist. "It's okay," he heard, Blair's breath warm and comforting against his throat. He didn't pull away, but slid his hands across Blair's back. 

"This is another fine mess you've gotten us into," he murmured, and heard Blair chuff with surprised laughter. 

"Then you have to get us out, Stan." 

Jim smiled into Blair's hair. Well, he had started it, and Blair had called heads. Fair's fair, he thought, and knew from Blair's compliant body in his arms that all would be well. "Stay with me," he said again and, amazed at his own courage, he kissed Blair's temple. He heard Blair sigh deeply and relax into his arms, leaning back trustfully, letting Jim take his weight. 

"I like this capacity," Blair admitted, and Jim felt himself blush. 

"You don't have to be a cop," Jim started, but Blair silenced him by gently kissing him, a soft touch to his lips. He froze, shocked and delighted and suddenly timid. 

"Not now, Jim." And Blair stood there in his arms looking up at him, lips slightly parted, smelling like oatmeal and raisins and sleep, beard still heavy and scratchy, looking nothing like anyone Jim had ever wanted to kiss before, looking like someone Jim wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. 

"Oh, what the hell," Jim muttered, and kissed Blair's brilliant smile. 


End file.
